


Blue Jean Blues

by thebisexualbanshee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Canon, Angst, Bisexual Dean, Canon, Canon Related, Dean in Denial, Dean-Centric, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Roadhouse, Sam Ships It, casdean - Freeform, harvelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8265410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebisexualbanshee/pseuds/thebisexualbanshee
Summary: Sam and Dean finish up a case and take the rest of the night off to hang out at The Roadhouse with Ellen and Jo, but Dean's mind lingers on a certain blue-eyed angel.





	1. What's with the Hardy Boys?

  
"Hey, asshole!" Dean shouted over the growls and snarls to the werewolf that had his brother pinned to a wall. Shocked that there was a second hunter, the wolf-man whipped around to face Dean with another low growl, yellow eyes glinting in the dark of the old farmhouse. Dean answered with a dark smirk--he had his handgun trained at the thing's heart, but he knew he wouldn't use it. He just needed to give Sammy some time, and...  
  
A shriek, the shine of metal, and a dull squelch signaled that the werewolf was done for. Sam's silver knife was plunged into its back, slicing clean through the heart and out the other side. When it went limp, Sam huffed and shoved the body off his blade. The wolf-man thudded to the dirt floor of the barn with a heavy thud, and Sam's vision shot up to Dean.  
  
"Were you gonna shoot it with me _right behind it?!_ " Sam bitched, stepping over the corpse and wiping his knife on his sleeve.  
  
"You're welcome," Dean scoffed, holstering his gun. "Of course not," he added, and pulled out his cell phone. Sam coughed a dubious laugh as he came to stand beside his brother, but Dean let it go. "We're not far from the Roadhouse. Wanna clean up and head there?"  
  
Sam gave a noncommittal shrug and a tired, "Yeah, sure. I could use a drink."  
  
"Good. Let's roll," was Dean's only answer. He stepped decidedly for the exit, making his way to the Impala parked outside the barn in the pre-midnight darkness of Middle-of-Nowhere, Nebraska.  
  
Back at the motel, they showered and packed quickly--they'd clocked the Roadhouse at about an hour's drive--and it was only a little after nine on a Friday night, so they hoped there would be a decent enough crowd for mingling. Dean was in the mood to flirt--even if it was just pretending to hit on Ellen. She was old enough to be his mother, most likely, but she was still a fox. Both Sam and Dean knew Jo had a little crush on Dean, and he didn't _hate_ the attention by a long shot, but he had a feeling Sam was more her type--even if she didn't know it yet. She'd figure it out. And anyway, he had his eye on a different prize, though he'd never admit it. But Sam seemed to have an idea.  
  


*****

Sam had been hiding in his own head most of the drive to the Roadhouse, pretending to read a copy of _Moby Dick_ he'd "borrowed" from some library somewhere during their travels, when in reality he was thinking less of Ishmael and Ahab and more of his big brother in the driver's seat. "Hey--what's Cas up to? Been a while since he stopped by Bobby's," he wondered carefully over to Dean when they were about fifteen minutes from the bar.  
  
"Dunno," Dean mumbled. "Probably angel stuff."  
He hoped his brother didn't notice the way his knuckles flinched around the steering wheel.  
"Why don't you ask him to come?" Sam asked, prodding a little harder. "I bet he could use a night off too."  
  
Dean snorted. "Ellen'd need to make one hell of an alcohol run to get Cas drunk."  
  
"You're not wrong," Sam conceded. "But--I don't know--don't you miss the guy?"  
  
"Do you?" Dean grumbled back dubiously, looking too closely at Sam to still be driving. He put on his best mocking smirk and prayed it was good enough. "You got a crush, Sammy?"  
  
"What? No--fine--forget I said anything," Sam sighed, retreating into his 'reading.' His brother was nothing if not stubborn. And grumpy. And emotionally constipated.  
  
Dean didn't answer. Instead, he sunk into his own thoughts and turned up the radio too loud, keeping his eyes glued to the road. There _was_ something a little too comfortable about the blue-eyed angel. Dean had felt it for a while--the strange tug in his gut, the way his heart flopped around in his chest whenever Cas was around--but he'd always tried to brush it off as some weird angel thing. Like a cosmic side-effect, or something. Even though he knew it wasn't. It's not that he was gay--he liked chicks way too much for that--but maybe Cas was the exception. Hell, if Cas had picked a girl body...Not that he'd ever say that to him, or Sammy, or anyone else for that matter. That was between him and his whiskey. If it ever needed to be said--well, he'd cross that bridge when it was on fire.  
  


*****

  
  
Ellen was outside tossing a trash bag into a dumpster when the boys rumbled up in the Impala. Sam and Dean saw her turn and squint at their headlights for a moment before recognition hit, and a grin spread across her face as she waved them in.  
  
“Well, hey there boys,” she smiled, folding her arms. “I don’t remember calling for trouble.”  
  
“It’s found you anyway,” Sam grinned, leaning in to scoop the woman into a brief hug. “It’s good to see you, Ellen.”  
  
“Likewise,” she nodded, but her brow furrowed at Dean. “Everything _is_ okay, ain’t it?”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” Dean answered, smoothing out his features. Apparently, he’d let his irritation follow him from the car. “Just wrapped up a werewolf milk-run about an hour out, thought we’d swing by.”  
  
“Glad you did,” Ellen nodded, her smile returning. “C’mon in, Jo’ll be glad to see you.”  
  
And she was. Ellen didn’t get a chance to make the announcement before Jo spotted them. She tried to stay stoic—a habit she’d employed to try and impress other hunters and to deter would-be suitors—but a brief smile split her lips as she cleaned off a table towards the back of the Roadhouse.  
  
“What’s with the Hardy Boys?” Jo quipped, thunking the empty glasses she’d just collected down on the bartop.  
  
“Nice to see you too,” Dean smirked. He noticed from the corner of his eye that Sam was smiling far too brightly at the blonde huntress. Jo's mother noticed it too, but neither bothered to call them on it.  
  
Jo rolled her eyes, but looked pleadingly to Ellen, who rolled hers in turn and gave in. “We’re slow tonight anyway,” she answered Jo's silent plea.  
  
And they were—a few old men were smoking and gambling in a corner, and there were a handful lounging around the bar, but there couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven people there already. Jo’s face lit up and she ducked behind the counter, shucking off her server’s apron and tossing it onto a nail.  
  
“Whiskey? Beer?” Jo queried over a shoulder, but grabbed a bottle and three shot glasses before anyone could answer. She rounded the bar and smacked the whiskey down onto the nearest table. “Sam’s buying,” she decided impishly, sliding easily into a chair. The boys made their way to their seats, but Ellen just rolled her eyes, mumbled something about not having too fun, and went about her work.  
  
Dean slouched in the creaky chair and threw back the first shot, feeling more like himself with every minute spent in the bar. A dirty, bluesy rock band crooned over the gravelly speakers. Everything was hazy in the smoke and the dim Roadhouse lighting. Sam and Jo chatted happily across from him, talking gun models, things they’d read, and post-college-dropout life. Dean was content to watch them and listen; to let the conversations, clinking glass, and grungy bar music lull him into relaxation. For a moment, all seemed right with the world. For a moment, he wasn’t pining for his angel.  
  


*****


	2. Drunk Dialed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean lets his alcohol consumption get the better of his self-control and makes an unintended "phone call."

They all had already had more to drink than they should have when Jo stumbled behind the bar to sneak another fifth of hunter’s helper. Between the three of them, they’d split two bottles of whiskey and a few beers each. Ellen was shooting them disdainful looks, but hey, Dean and Sam were actually _laughing_ for once, so she figured she could let it slide. They deserved a bit of happiness now and again. Their hangovers, she justified, would be punishment enough, so she turned a blind eye and pretended she didn’t notice Jo snag that third bottle.  
  
She sank back into her chair—which had somehow inched closer and closer to Sam’s seat over the course of a few hours—and cracked open the bottle, pouring out three shots.  
  
“You gotta come around more,” she slurred around a laugh, spilling more of the whiskey on the table than she got into the glasses. “It’s lonely here with just Mom.”  
  
“Sweetheart, if we were here any more often, you wouldn’t survive,” Dean answered, grinning and snagging a shot. He lifted it in a toast and added, “Not with the way we’re drinking.”  
  
Jo waved it off and snagged her own sticky shot glass. “C’mon, Sam. Your turn to make the toast.”  
  
“I think we’ve run out of things to drink to,” Sam replied, though he raised his glass regardless. He stared for a few seconds, sloshing the amber liquid before deciding seriously, “Here’s to whiskey.”  
  
“To whiskey!” Dean and Jo crowed more or less in unison, clinking their glasses together sloppily and coughing through the shot. Jo made more faces than she’d have liked to, but she was beyond caring. When she could speak clearly again, she pushed back from the table. “Someone pour up some more. I’m hitting the Juke Box.”  
  
“No way—you’ll pick something lame,” Sam interrupted. He staggered up from the table, but Jo was already on her way.  
  
“D’you know me at all? It’s like you…” Jo’s voice faded into the din as she moved away from the table. Sam followed, and Dean couldn’t make out his responses. But Sammy was laughing, and when Jo leaned up against the Juke Box, Sam’s arm leaned around her, boxing her in. It was a good enough sight to keep Dean happy and content—until it wasn’t.  
  
Dean watched Sam and Jo have the most flirtatious argument ever over what song to choose, and it made him happy to see his little brother happy, but his own flirting had fallen flat all night. Maybe because Jo had finally realized Sammy was more her type. Maybe because Dean couldn’t make himself really mean it. Maybe because the angel he _wanted_ to be flirting with was nowhere. He should have just taken the bait when Sam suggested it. Maybe then he could’ve played it off like a bro-thing instead of a drunk-text or a booty-call.  
  
He sank back into his chair and dragged off a bottle of beer, still absently watching Sam and Jo. They must have found a song, because in the relative quiet between the last one and the beginning of whatever they’d chosen, he heard a distinctly amused, “Oh, but _I’m_ the lame one?” from Jo. Whatever Sam said back was drowned out as the first notes of a slow, bluesy guitar rang out through the bar. A few drunk couples had been taking turns swaying to the music in a clear spot on the floor, and when the slower rock wailed out, a few rose to dance again. Sam had grabbed Jo’s hand to drag her to into a slow dance, and she made a show of trying to fight him off, but ended up in his arms anyway.  
  
The difference in Sam’s and Jo’s height should have made it entertaining to watch them try to dance, but Dean had to look away. His stomach turned with something too close to jealousy as he watched his friend and his brother clumsily sway to the crooning ZZ Top. The song wasn’t even on for half a minute before Ellen’s voice rang out a warning of “Watch where you put those hands, Sam,” from behind the bar. It should have been funny. It would have been, if he’d been able to get the blue-eyed angel off his mind. It might have been funny if he’d been the one on the respective dance floor, swaying with –  
  
__Castiel? Dean’s thoughts turned, suddenly and accidentally, into prayers. He let his head loll back as he swigged his beer, eyes closing towards the ceiling. _You busy? It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, man. I miss you. I hope you’re okay._  
  
Dean sat like that for a few more moments, listening to the song—how long was it, anyway?—before letting his head drop forward. He opened his eyes to reach for the whiskey, to check on Jo and Sam, but found a dark-haired man in a trench coat had materialized in the seat across from him. His shock must have been obviously written into his less-than-sober features, because Castiel’s brows knit and the first words he said were, “Hello, Dean…you look confused.”  
  
“I—hey, there, Cas. What are you doing here?” Dean managed, sitting up straighter. He shot a glance over to the dance floor where Sam and Jo were still attempting to press foreheads.  
  
Cas tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You prayed to me,” he answered matter-of-factly.  
  
The revelation hit Dean slowly. _Of course he had. Dumbass._ “I drunk-dialed you,” he mumbled, and pushed a hand back through his hair, messing it up. “Sorry, Cas, I didn’t—”  
  
“You said you missed me,” Cas cut Dean off, though his voice had lowered, softened.  
  
“Listen, I’ve just had too much to drink,” Dean tried to play it off, but his heart was racing, and his mind was swimming, and he’d let himself get far too drunk, and _damn, have your eyes always been this blue?_  
  
Castiel’s face goes blank with shock, and then his gaze narrows once more. “Dean…these aren’t my real eyes. I, of course, don’t have physical retinas or corneas, as my true form is quite…” The angel’s words fade as he stares at Dean—who, once again, looks utterly shocked. “You did it again,” he realizes calmly.  
  
Cas is watching him intently, but Dean doesn’t say a word. His mouth opens and closes in a few attempts, but every time he tries to form a syllable, he clears his throat and looks away instead. _Too drunk. Bad idea. Way too drunk. Get it together. But he’s here, and he’s so…_  
  
“What do you want?” Castiel’s quiet murmur breaks into Dean’s thoughts. The angel’s words, though short, are gentle and genuine, and the way he’s looking at Dean, the hunter can’t help but let his honest answer spill out.  
  
“You,” he nearly whispers, but Dean knows Cas has no trouble hearing him. He tilts his head towards the Juke Box, indicating Sam and Jo, who are still wrapped up in each other’s arms though the song selection has picked up just a bit too much for slow dancing. “That.”  
  
Cas follows Dean’s gaze over to Sam and Jo, and his blue eyes analyze them thoughtfully for a time before understanding washes over his features. “Oh,” is the angel’s only reply.  
  
Dean snorts out a bitter, self-deprecating chuckle and snags his beer. “Yeah,” he answers tersely, pushing back from the table to stark towards the back exit, chugging back a good bit of beer as he goes. He passes by Sam and Jo, but they’re too drunk and too involved in each other’s bodies to notice.  
  
“Dean, wait—Dean!” Cas calls out, but Dean is already shouldering his way outside.


	3. Laugh I Nearly Died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk words are sober thoughts; drunk actions are sober wants.

The cool night air envelops Dean as he forces himself out of the Roadhouse, letting the door fall closed behind him with a dull creak. He leans on the wooden railing of the small back porch and sucks in the chill, grasping for any lingering threads of sobriety in his mind. It does help, but only negligibly so; the world is too dark, the bar too warm, and tonight, Dean can’t outrun the whiskey. It meanders lazily through his body, and he hangs his head, trying to focus on the dull thrum of the Rolling Stones song playing inside.  
  
He’s given up on mitigating his inebriation and is just finishing off the last of his beer when light and sound simultaneously spill out from behind him. He catches a handful of lyrics through the bar’s din (… _pushed aside, but laugh, laugh_ …) before a low voice cuts through the haze of noise.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
The door creaks closed and the light recedes, taking the sound with it. The bass is so heavy, though, that Dean can feel it through the old wooden boards of the porch. He sighs and slams his now-empty beer bottle too hard to the railing, not looking back. “Yeah, Cas, listen—forget it, okay?”  
  
Without a sound, Castiel is beside him on the porch, watching Dean’s tense, hunched figure with concern. “Why?”  
  
Dean scoffs. “Come _on,_ man, I know you don’t get human stuff—but _really?_ You’re really gonna make me explain this to you?”  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” Cas answers quietly, gently reaching to place a hand on Dean’s shoulder and push, goading the elder Winchester to face him. When Dean’s reply is wordless, simply a raw, too-heartbroken stare, the angel shakes his head. “I mean—I don’t want to forget.”  
  
“What?” Dean balks, swaying on the spot a little—he’s still drunk, and this is all too much.  
  
“I…understand?” Cas answers, working through the words slowly, almost as if they were a question. His eyes narrow, and a calm frustration infiltrates his words. He looks down from Dean, looks at nothing in particular. “These human things—these _emotions_ , I—was never supposed to have them. Was never supposed to _feel._ It’s all very strange, and confusing. But I feel what you want. And I want it too.”  
  
Dean’s jaw has gone slack and his features betray his shock. He remains silent for so long that finally, Cas simply prods, “Say something, Dean.”  
  
The command snaps Dean out of his—whatever it was he was in—and he swallows back a lump that’s grown to the size of a fist in his throat. And when he speaks, he’s just as surprised by the words that come out as he thinks Castiel probably is. “Wanna dance?”  
  
Dean was right; it _wasn’t_ what Cas was expecting. “I don’t know how,” he answers softly, but his actions betray his words, and he’s already placing a hand on the hunter’s hip, tugging him in until Dean is flush with his own body.  
  
Dean shakes his head. “Neither do I,” he answers, and loops an arm around the angel’s neck, the other sliding to press against the small of his back beneath the trench coat. Something slow and bluesy creeps through the walls of the Roadhouse, but Dean can’t make out exactly what it is. He doesn’t really care—they’re not really dancing anyway. Neither of them move, and Dean lets himself rest his forehead against Castiel’s. “I think we’re supposed to sway,” he mumbles, but still, both he and the angel remain still, locked up against one another.  
  
“Should I—“ Cas begins, but as Dean’s forehead connects with his, he goes silent. Only momentarily, though; he takes a few deep breaths, and then offers matter-of-factly, “Your breath reeks of whiskey.” Despite this, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he draws the hunter in closer until both his hands are linked against the small of Dean’s back and the tips of their noses are pressed together. “And your pulse is rapid.”  
  
“Think of the mood, Cas,” Dean breathes, smiling in spite of himself.  
  
“Dean, an irregular heartbeat is nothing to laugh about,” Cas chides, some of his gruff sternness edging back into his tone.  
  
“Cas.”  
  
“Yes, Dean?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
Dean’s eyes have closed, and he’s started to sway a little—whether it’s on purpose or because of his inebriation is anybody’s guess—but Castiel does as he’s told and goes silent, matching Dean’s rhythm, or lack thereof. His eyes remain open, though, locked on the hunter. He notices goosebumps on his own arms and the back of his neck, and recognizes that the temperature is lower than normal outside—but angels don’t get cold. A warm sensation has settled in Castiel’s stomach and is steadily rising up his throat; he can name the chemicals, can pinpoint each molecular piston firing in his vessel’s brain, but he can’t stop it. A sensation that feels like electricity but isn’t electricity is pinging against his fingertips, the follicles of his hair, the thin skin of his lips.  
  
Cas is so locked into these strange, human sensations that he doesn’t notice Dean has stopped moving, and is staring back at him. “Cas?” The hunter voices quietly, retreating a half-step back to check on the angel.  
  
Castiel blinks himself back to the present, his mouth falling open as he stares back at Dean. When the hunter speaks his name, he can hear the distinct note of fear in his voice—a tone the angel has learned to recognize by now; a tone that makes something in his chest twist and writhe. It’s a sound that he would burn the world to never hear again.  
  
In a flash—in a very human gesture performed too quickly for an actual human—Castiel’s hands leave Dean’s back and clamp down on either side of the hunter’s face. He hesitates like this only long enough to lock eyes with Dean and take a shallow breath before he presses his lips desperately against those of the Righteous Man.  
  
Maybe it’s the alcohol, but Dean doesn’t flinch at all. His instincts kick in and he wraps his arms around the angel’s back, stepping them blindly backwards until Castiel’s back connects hard with the wall beside the door. They stay like this—a flurry of hands in hair, of accidental (and not-so-accidental) bites, lips moving together in a rough, stifled frenzy—until Dean has breathed so little he has to pull back for air. He watches Cas, chest heaving with his catch-up breaths; his hands are knotted into the angel’s dark hair, and Castiel’s have snuck behind Dean’s jacket, beneath his shirt, to press his fingertips hard into the skin of Dean’s back.  
  
Castiel regains himself more quickly than Dean. He reluctantly breaks the hunter’s gaze to cast a cursory glance to the stars, murmuring through kiss-swollen lips, “It’s nearly three in the morning. Won’t Sam—”  
  
“Sam’s probably hiding from Ellen,” Dean exhales, still unable to look away from the angel’s blue eyes. “He was getting pretty handsy with Jo.”  
  
Something makes Castiel’s expression fall, and he looks back to Dean. “What is it, Cas?” the hunter inquires.  
  
“Could we—would this be easier if I found a different vessel?” Cas wonders. When Dean’s face remains unchanged, he clarifies, “A female vessel.”  
  
Dean blinks at his angel and cracks a small, drunken smile. In all likelihood, he knows, he’ll regret this tomorrow. But he can’t care about that right now.  
  
“Probably,” he answers softly. He tugs the angel into another round of kisses anyway.  
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if this moves a bit slowly. I wanted to take my time and give the scenes some realism! For ambiance, look up/create a playlist based around the title song: Blue Jean Blues by ZZ Top. Other songs: Sugar Mama by Taste; Laugh I Nearly Died by the Rolling Stones.


End file.
